Bombs Bursting In Air
by Kate Christie
Summary: Kate receives a peace offering from Castle just in time for the 4th of July. Spoiler: there will be fireworks.
1. Chapter 1

Kate glares down at the red square envelope that has occupied the lower left corner of her desk for the past 3 days.

No. She isn't going.

Picking up the heavy paper between her thumb and index finger, she turns to drop it in the wastebasket.

"You gonna spend your whole night here doing paperwork, or are you going to use that?"

Her fingers clench reflexively over the invitation, and Kate takes a quick calming breath before she turns to face Roy.

"Captain, I didn't know you were still here."

"Won't be for long. There's a hot grill and a cold beer waiting for me. You're always welcome to join us if you don't want to hobnob with Manhattan society."

"Thank you, really. And please give my best to Evelyn and the girls, but I think I'm going to catch up on some reading, maybe turn in early."

"He sent you an advance copy, didn't he?"

"No—no. I hadn't heard from Castle in weeks until this came." Somehow the envelope is tucked against her side.

Montgomery unfolds a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket and perches them on his forehead.

"Suit yourself, but if I had the night off and an extra ticket to the most exclusive 4th of July party in the city, I think I'd trade in Jane Austen for champagne and caviar."

"Dostoyevsky, actually."

He arches one eyebrow as he pulls out a vibrating cell phone and backs toward the elevators.

"Duty calls. See you on Monday."

Kate smiles and waves as he updates his wife on his ETA and steps on the elevator.

Her hand hovers over the wastebasket again, but she can't resist one last look at the invitation. Untucking the flap, she slides the thick cardstock out and scans the engraved foil lettering, topped with a tasteful burst of fireworks. A single ticket and matching security pass peek out from beneath the post-it with Castle's neat printing.

" _Couldn't use this—thought you might enjoy it. Happy 4th."_

A peace offering. She shoves everything back inside with a shake of her head. Doesn't mean she has to accept it.

An hour later, she flashes the security pass to cross 10th Avenue at Chelsea Piers.

Ticket takers wait at the gangplanks of several boats—a pair from the Circle Line, a dinner barge with tables set in red, white, and blue, a Harbor Line cruiser overrun with screaming kids. As she approaches the end of her pier, a smiling, tuxedo-clad greeter waves her through and points her toward an enormous white yacht.

 _Apropos_ , Castle being "The White Whale."

Stepping on board, she tucks the ends of her hair behind her ears, and scans the clusters of sleek, over-tanned women in summery, one-shouldered dresses and big sunglasses. She had guessed right on her wardrobe at least.

A waiter hands her a flute brimming with champagne, a ripe, sugared strawberry splayed over the rim. Strolling along the bow, she spots a door propped open, peeks inside to find a candle-lit banquet room set for dinner, empty dance floor ringed by instruments for a band. Her eyes shut over a crystal clear flash of a red strapless dress, a snug black tux, and a smooth, rock-steady dip she had never gotten to repeat. Damn him and his arrogant curiosity.

Slugging back some champagne, she continues across the main deck, winding through chatting clusters of socialites, sipping drinks and nibbling passed hors d'oeuvres. A narrow stairway opens out to an upper deck mostly filled by another dance floor, this one set up for a DJ. An expansive bar stretches along the opposite rail, occupied by sport-coat-clad men eyeing the two small TV screens filled with baseball and golf.

A blast from the ship's horn signals their imminent departure, and as Kate drains the last of her champagne, she heads for an open spot closest to the Mets game. Bottom of the 8th with Philly up 4 to 1, and most of the heads on this end of the bar are either shaking in disgust or bowed over their glasses of scotch.

"What can I get you?" The bartender is straight out of _GQ_. Maybe the next three hours won't be a total bore…

Kate perches on a stool and shoots him a smile just as the engines whir to life and the boat glides away from its moorings.

"I'll have a scotch, neat."

On the edge of her peripheral vision, a head snaps around.

"Kate? You came?"

Her eyes shut at the sound of his voice.

No.

No no no no no.

Her lids open and she glances hard to her right, eyes landing on the smiling face of Richard Castle.

# * # * # * #

A/N: Part 1 of 3, for 4th of July.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie (*) tumblr (*) com


	2. Chapter 2

**Bombs Bursting in Air Chapter 2**

Castle is halfway down the bar, brows arched, frozen and staring.

"What are you—?"

The forgotten, hot bartender hands her a generous pour of Macallan, and she thanks him before sliding off her stool to stalk past the 3 suits trying not to stare.

"Castle why are you here?" she whisper yells as she steps up beside him.

"What do you mean? I was invited here by Black Pawn. I come every year."

The man may be annoying, but he looks sharp, like he _belongs_ here, one elbow perched on the ultramodern stainless steel and glass bar, the other hand removing his designer sunglasses to tuck them into the pocket of his crisp, white button-down.

"Then what was that note about 'I couldn't use this ticket'? I thought you sent me _your_ ticket because you couldn't come."

"No, Alexis couldn't come."Castle's eyes narrow, head tipping toward her. "She's always my date and she went to LA to spend the 4th with her mom this year."

She'd shown the note to the boys, read it aloud to Lanie, heck, even Montgomery had agreed it must be _his_ ticket _—not_ a date. Unless… Had all of them conspired against her? Had she been the only one who didn't know?

"So now what, _I'm_ supposed to be your date?" It comes out deeper and tougher than the flippant response she had planned.

"No."

She cocks her head at his emphatic reply and his brow creases.

"I mean, yes?"

Her hand fists on her hip.

"Only if you want to be?" That last part comes out like a strangled question rather than an answer. Like a deer in headlights, his big, blue eyes stay fixed on hers as he reaches blindly back toward the bar for a highball glass of amber liquid, rattling its lone spherical ice cube when his hand finally closes around it.

Kate takes a slow breath through her nose, lets it out just as slowly.

"Why didn't you just call me if you wanted me to come with you?"

"Are you kidding? I knew you wouldn't take my call." Castle takes a sip of his drink.

He's right. Not after her ice-cold dismissal a month before, right after he had showed her the photos of her mother's stab wound, and three more pale backs, their matching deep red gouges fading to dusky mauve around blunted, purpling edges. She had shoved those photos as far down in her desk drawer as she could, dove into work, tried to leave the case alone. It had mostly worked.

"I brought Joey at the desk at the 12th a double bacon burger and a milkshake and made him promise to put the invitation in your hands personally—he did put it in your hands, right?"

"Yes." Had every single person at the precinct been in on this? Kate steps back from the bar, turning on her heel to make a beeline for the stairs. Obnoxious socialites are better than three hours of being reminded why she kicked Castle out of her life a month ago.

"Wait, Beckett, please?" his voice breaks on the "please," and she stops short of the railing, eyeing their ever-widening distance from the pier. She could totally jump for it if it wouldn't ruin her shoes.

"Look, I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night." His voice is low and pleading off her left shoulder. "Just pretend I'm not here."

Kate grips the cool, chrome railing with one hand, takes a deep drink of scotch with the other as he steps up beside her. Closing her eyes, she inhales air heavy with the scent of the Hudson. When her lids open, she lets her focus settle on the New Jersey bank before she speaks.

"We're trapped on a floating postage stamp for the next 3 hours. I don't think even I am capable of the level of denial required to ignore you." A quick side glance shows her no hint of his earlier smile.

"I'll go below. There's a group down there from Black Pawn. They'll be thrilled to get to harass me about deadlines and tour dates all night." It's his turn to gulp the last of his drink, and he turns to leave the empty glass on the closest cocktail table. "Stay here. Enjoy yourself. Go flirt with your prettyboy bartender."

As he descends the stairs, a knot curls in the pit of her stomach. He dug up her mother's case after she told him not to. Kate sags against the railing, watching Castle weave through the crowd on the main deck below.

Damn it, he was supposed to be gone from her life for good, not showing up as her non-date on a luxury yacht in the Hudson. She downs the rest of her scotch in one deep swallow, but she doesn't go back to the bar.

# * # * # * #

"Dinner in five minutes." A white-gloved waiter mills through the upper deck crowd ringing a tiny, silver bell, announcing their meal just as the Statue of Liberty slips out of sight.

Kate calculates they have been on the water for about an hour, and as much of a stony Manhattanite as she may be, she has to admit the views of her home from the river have been beautiful.

Stepping down to the main deck just as they approach Governor's Island, an image floods her mind. Another ship—the Circle Line—on a sunny summer afternoon, motoring past the iconic pointy-topped copper domes of Ellis Island that barely peeked above the ship's railing from her shorter perspective. A day with her mom, "being tourists," eating ice cream—she still has the pennies in her jewelry box, flattened into ovals ridged with Lady Liberty as she had turned the crank on the machine at the base of the statue.

Her heart takes its usual little swan dive from happy memory into cold mourning as Kate steps inside the darkened dining room. The July sunshine leaves her night-blind for an instant, and she stops inside the door to get her bearings.

Band members now fill the seats circling the parquet dance floor, playing soft jazz. About half the chairs are taken at round 8-tops dripping with white linen and sprouting silver candelabras. And numbers—tasteful, calligraphed digits—perch in nests of Swarovski crystals at the center of every last table.

Doomed. She is doomed.

Opening her clutch, she resigns herself to her fate, and finds the printed "1" on the back of her invitation. Scanning the room, she spots table 1 front and center, at the edge of the dancefloor. Her former shadow is nowhere to be found, so she makes her way over and takes the seat farthest from the edge of the parquet, inventing "man overboard" scenarios that might have left Castle clinging to a life preserver or dripping on an NYPD harbor patrol boat rather than at her dinner table.

When the seats around her are taken, filling with three polite, if somewhat tipsy, couples continuing a boisterous conversation from the bar, irrational hope blooms in Kate's chest. Maybe he's found a seat at a different table.

"You must be Nikki," the closest blonde throws her an almost predatory smile and offers a manicured hand, which Kate shakes despite her inward cringe at the name.

"Kate, her name is Detective Kate Beckett." Castle slides into the only open seat, just to her left, and an unexpected wave of something like relief washes over her. "These are my team of piranhas, I mean _publishers_ , from Black Pawn."

Kate continues to smile politely through personal introductions with the other six occupants of their table. Tuxedo-clad servers descend as soon as the group is settled, pouring wine and depositing plates of salad that resemble piles of tiny, multicolored tumbleweed. The publishers are off on a tangent about market analysis, and Castle is oddly quiet, munching greens, his eyes scanning the band.

"We had a case that reminded me of you the other day." The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them, probably thanks in part to the half glass of Pinot Noir she had just downed. But Castle's whole face brightens, infectious grin returning full force in her direction as he trades his salad fork for his own glass of wine.

"Zombies? Super-secret CIA operatives? Russian mafia?"

"Circus clowns."

"Oh, you wound me, Detective. But why didn't you call?"

Staring silently back at him only draws a deeper wrinkle across his brow.

"Same reason you didn't call me to invite me tonight." The damn wine is flowing right through her filter.

Another flurry of reaching arms and the salads are replaced with dinner plates artfully decorated with what might be their entree. The interruption is enough to allow him to be dragged into a conversation about his next book tour with the woman seated on Castle's left. Kate reaches for her wine to work on the second half of the glass only to find it full. Great. She's never going to be able to keep track at this rate.

Half-eaten wedges of cheesecake ring their table, abandoned, when Gary, the marketing executive to her right, pauses his epic tale of scoring glowing endorsements on his latest pet project for a bathroom break. Something about teenage zombies battling to save the earth from alien invasion — or was it teenage aliens saving the earth from zombie invasion? She squeezes her eyes shut hoping to force the entire conversation out of her long-term memory.

"He keeps trying to convince me to write about a post-apocalyptic zombie spy."

When Kate opens her eyes, she finds the table empty except for Castle, who nudges a crystal tumblr with a healthy pour of what might be Scotch in her direction. Lifting it, she sniffs, lets one corner of her mouth rise.

"Nice." Caramel and a hint of smoke coat her tongue when she takes a sip. "Really nice."

"You're not the only one who can charm bartenders."

Kate glances back to find a busty blonde behind the bar.

"Touché."

Sliding from smooth jazz into Sinatra, the band kicks up the volume and draws a few couples onto the dance floor. Their table-mates have yet to return, so she opts for nursing her drink with her eyes on the band, ignoring the man who had brought it to her.

Two songs into their set, she's polished off the scotch, its pleasant warmth humming through her veins. Just as she reaches for her perpetually full wine glass, Castle leans in close.

"Would you care to dance, Detective?"

A sudden flash of visceral memory grips her—a red dress, a warm hand splayed across her back, the world upending as she floated, weightless—Kate blinks, fighting it until her subconscious wins out.

"Why not?"

Thick fingers close over her hand, drawing her to her feet and out onto the floor. Castle keeps his hold loose as he lifts one arm out and wraps the other around her. Slippery, crisp cotton cools her fingertips as they grip the point of his shoulder, and she concentrates on keeping her eyes there, focused on something other than his face.

"Heaven—I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…"

It must be the Scotch that makes his palm scorching hot against her skin, that makes her step a little closer, until the folds of her dress meet the sharp pleats of his dress pants. The tempo is easy and he's an excellent lead, and soon she finds herself relaxing into his hold, her body leaning into his as they sway.

"I didn't know you could foxtrot." His voice vibrates through her chest almost as much as it does in her ear.

"Cotillion. Fifth grade. My aunt was big in the Junior League."

"Seriously?" he pulls back just enough to look her in the eye, and she lets her gaze focus on those big, blue eyes, willing herself not to project the memory of herself in her flowered dress, white gloves, and black patent-leather Mary Jane's straight into his brain. "Are there pictures? Because I would pay good money for pictures."

"My mom holed away the ones I couldn't destroy when I was a teenager," she's smiling at the memory of her goth phase as she speaks, but his body stiffens, the sparkle disappearing from his eyes.

"Kate, I never should have—" his jaw clenches, "I'm sorry," his feet stop, the lack of movement jarring after the smoothness of their dance. His eyes are so serious, some deep instinct to assuage his guilt over mentioning her mom overtakes her.

"It's fine, I can talk about her. I like remembering the happy things." In that moment, her words are true, even with him.

Couples dip and sway around them, but Castle stays rooted to their spot, brow wrinkling.

"That's not what I meant." His gentle grip on her hand tightens, thumb stroking over the point of her knuckle. "Her case." The band falls silent, all the couples joining them in stillness. "I was wrong to look into her case after you told me not to, and I'm sorry."

Kate blinks up at him, a sudden wave of warmth cresting over her, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His face is stone, but his eyes flick back and forth between hers, pleading for some kind of forgiveness. The fist that has been clenched deep in her chest for the past month loosens.

A loud crackle over the sound system sends a tremor through her body, and Castle lets go of his hold, stepping back and turning to face the woman now standing in front of the band.

"Good evening everyone—sorry to interrupt, but the fireworks are just moments away."

# * # * # * #

Carried along with the crowd from the dance floor, he takes up her hand again as they weave their way out on deck and up the stairs. A tuxedo-clad server presses icy-cold flutes of pink champagne studded with strawberries into their hands, glasses slippery with dripping condensation. Kate cannot help but sip the cold effervescence, bubbles popping across her palate.

Even the press of the crowd, all jockeying for the best spots at the rail through the Hudson-soaked night air is not enough to part them. He tugs her against the flow of traffic toward a curtain just off one side of the bar, and slips behind it before she can protest, revealing a tiny spiral of stairs tucked behind. Narrow metal steps combined with the bubbly have her teetering on her high-heeled sandals as she climbs behind him. Castle reaches back with his free hand to help her over the lip of whatever this postage-stamp-sized rooftop is, perched precariously above the upper deck, nearly hanging over the stern at the rear of the ship.

But once she's there, hand resting on the railing, she never wants to leave.

Oversized Edison bulbs swaying inches above their heads give just enough light to see the railing, but Kate only has eyes for the twinkling high rises reaching up toward the night sky out of the lower Manhattan skyline. The scalloped spire of the Chrysler Building peeks out from behind the pointy tip of the Bank of America Tower as the boat cuts its engines. A chorus of oohs and ahs accompanies the first burst of color launching off the starboard bow.

Maybe it's the haze of alcohol that leaves her unprepared for the matching boom that follows half a second later, close and unbuffered from the barges stationed on the water behind them. The sound ricochets off every tall building and buffets the air in her chest, and when a second volley of starbursts snap like popcorn seconds later, she flinches, has to stifle her instinct to reach for the weapon that is not at her hip.

Kate's bare back makes contact with the broad expanse of Castle's chest, and his palms press in gently to cover her upper arms. Though the night is warm, the breeze off the water sends a chill along the curve of her neck, and Kate blushes at the new wash of goosebumps he must feel under his warm fingertips.

"Found this spot a couple of years ago with Alexis—got her out of the rowdy crowd, but still had the view." His voice is low and close behind her ear, just for her.

"Speaking of the view…" Kate's voice sounds foreign to her ears—gravel and soot—and she takes a quick sip of the fruit-infused champagne.

Another volley of red-white-and-blue lights up the whole river just long enough to leave sluggish, jittering ghost images behind in the inky blackness.

"Stunning." That one word from Castle fills an instant of silence between explosions of noise, tingling across the shell of her ear, drawing her head back until the arc of her neck meets the crisp pleat of his collar. Solid. Unwavering. She lets herself rest, lets her rational mind go silent. He plucks the empty champagne glass from her hand and sets it beside his, behind the railing.

They stay pressed together through the pops and bangs, their perch occasionally rocking in response to the wake of another passing boat. But Kate feels as steady as she has in longer

than she can remember. Even when she blinks a little too long and her equilibrium rolls far more than the deck, his presence at her back is unwavering. When the final flurry of fireworks launches and explodes, the last strains of "Ode to Joy" reaching their crescendo, she turns her head, finds the top of her nose pressing at the gallop of his pulse.

Before she can think better of it, before she can think at all, Kate twists her body, rising up on her toes to press chest to chest, and kisses Castle full on the lips.

# * # * # * #

Thanks to Alex and Dia for beta and general psychological support, and to all of you for kind words, which mean a lot for a writer who hasn't been able to write much of late. One more chapter to go. Happy 4th of July to all who are celebrating.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

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